He glanced at the blade then lowered his eyes, offering a small prayer to the spirits of ancestors and victims with which the sword was imbued. Made in the 1400s by a master swordsman it had been in his family for 27 generations, some of them shorter than others.

Hiroshige raised the blade to the position made popular by Miyamoto Musashi (Open on all sides) then stepped lightly into an attack pose, drawing the shimmering sliver of light quickly down and right. Blood sprayed against his leg like warm rain. In the next 60 seconds Hiroshige slashed and thrust many times, sweating with the effort.

A gong sounded and he drew the bloodied weapon across his headscarf, wiping blood and gore from it, then ran it home into its scabbard.

Hiroshige bowed and backed through the gate, leaving 544 dead chickens in his wake. A fine drizzle of feathers floated on the breeze while hundreds of headless chickens rolled and flopped violently around the pen.

Hiroshige took the mask off. He was a much less imposing figure, without a giant chicken head resting on his shoulders. The white feathers of his suit would need washing.

Sotatsu passed him on the way to the pen, his face stony, his cold, black eyes hard and cruel, his black mask under his arm.

Hiroshige thought his record would be safe, today. He was a national hero, with millions of followers, in what had been a highly secretive and unknown sport until a few years ago.